Rhysand had never known such fear—not during his first battle, not under the mountain, not even when he'd first sworn allegiance to Amarantha to save his court. But now, watching you being dragged across the bloodstained floor by the Attor, his carefully maintained mask almost slipped.

You stumbled, your legs weak from whatever torment you’d endured. Bruises bloomed along your arms and collarbone, vivid against your torn tunic, and small cuts decorated your face like a cruel artist’s touch. Your eyes—normally so full of fire—were dulled, unfocused.

Rhysand remained still on the dais beside Amarantha, every muscle in his body locked in place. He forced his face into the familiar mask of boredom, painted his mouth into a smirk of practiced indifference. But inside, his heart was pounding, a deafening roar in his ears. He tasted blood from how hard he bit the inside of his cheek.

He couldn’t let her see. Couldn’t let you see.

Amarantha reclined on her throne of bones, her russet-red hair coiled like a serpent around her shoulders. Her long, pale fingers tapped the edge of her seat as the Attor shoved you to your knees before her.

"And who do we have here?" she hissed, tilting her head like a curious predator, her eyes glinting with sadistic delight.

The Attor’s wings twitched. “A spy, my Lady. Found skulking near the western tunnel. Refused to speak, even under… encouragement.”

Rhysand's jaw clenched imperceptibly. He could smell your blood from here, metallic and sharp, mingled with the scent of fear—and yet, there was no whimper from you. No plea.